


I Believe That I Can Make You Scream

by nameloc_ar_115



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Coyote Malia, Derek and Malia are Not Related, Derek and Stiles are Animals, Fox Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Licking, Love/Hate, M/M, No Dialogue, Not Werecreatures, Scent Marking, Wolf Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-04-08 05:05:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4291767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nameloc_ar_115/pseuds/nameloc_ar_115
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Many say that wolves and foxes don't get along. There is always an exception to the rule.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

                The wolf loped through the forest, sated and full from his recent kill, still licking warm blood from his muzzle. He entered a clearing with a small, babbling creek and paused at an unusual sight.

                A little fox, a vibrant spray of orange against the muted litter layer. Half the size of the wolf and whimpering under its breath. The small creature was lying on its side, ears twitching in response to the wolf’s approach.

                In a flurry, the fox righted itself back onto four legs and squared its smaller body off against the larger canid’s.

                The wolf knew how clever foxes were, how fast they could run. He had eaten a few before, when the deer were scant, and they always put up a lengthy chase. This one stood still and postured, favoring one of its hind legs. It would not be able to outrun the wolf.

                The little fox’s ears flattened as the wolf moved closer, and it growled and bared its tiny, razor teeth. The wolf huffed in amusement, wondering how the little fox even fed itself with such teeth.

                Closer, the wolf caught a sweet scent that made him salivate and let his tongue loll out from between his bottom canines. He sniffed the air and locked his gaze back onto the creature in front of him, tracking how it started to move backwards but never turned its back. He knew now the source of that appealing scent.

                The wolf reassured the little fox of its safety with slow and even steps forward. There had been plenty of deer this year, and he had just eaten. Plus, the smell of the fox.

                A spunky little thing that hadn’t stopped snarling even as the wolf stood close enough to bop their snouts together. It raised its hackles and released an endless stream of hostile noises at its bigger relative, crouching low to the ground with its hind end raised.

                The wolf was delighted by the fierce spirit of such a small creature and resolved to see what was ailing the little fox. The wolf nosed at its flank, making the fox yowl in indignation. He nudged harder against the fox’s side until it lost balance, betrayed by its weak leg. The tinier animal tumbled and sprawled into the leaves on its side.  

                Its petite body was rising and falling frantically as it breathed, scared and uncertain. The wolf dug his snout into the soft fur of the fox’s flank, finding blood congealed in its coat from a bite. A deep pair of scratches, one above its hock and one below. Something had tried to take a piece out of the little fox. It was lucky that the wolf was here now.

                The wolf turned back to the bite and started licking it clean, inspiring another burst of yapping from the fox. Eventually, it quieted, and the poor thing’s breaths steadied. He cleaned the little fox with great care, bathing its broken skin until the fur was unknotted and all signs of gore gone. Then he started on the back leg, giving it the same treatment.

                When he finished, the fox’s liquid tawny eyes were slanted sideways, glancing still somewhat distrustfully at the wolf. It stood up gingerly, holding its injured leg almost off of the ground, and leveled the wolf with a specific look. _What now?_

Maybe the little fox thought that he played games with his prey before tearing out their tender throats. Silly fox, his kind were not the tricksters.

                The wolf moved back to the fox’s hind legs, where the small creature had begrudgingly accepted the wolf’s presence, neither fussing nor scrambling away.

                The most crucial need had been attended to, with the wolf healing the fox to the best of his ability. Now, his attention moved on to the next matter of urgency.  

                There was only one reason the fox would smell so mouth-watering and tempting. The wolf poked his head between the fox’s hind legs, the luscious scent thickening in his flaring nostrils. He expected to find a moist sex, evidence that the bitch was in heat, searching for its sire.

                The wolf was puzzled when he saw nothing but a smooth patch of white fur covering a gentle bulge on the animal’s underside. A reynard then, not a vixen.

                For his troubles, he earned a kick to the snout with the fox’s good leg and another round of snarling.

                Still, he didn’t sense the little fox’s skulk nearby and was reluctant to leave it. He was taken with the tinier male despite recent understanding that it could never give him any cubs. He had long been without a pack of his own and sympathized.

                The wolf jerked his head in the direction of his den, and the fox followed warily. Injured and knowing that winter would soon be upon them, there wasn’t much of a choice. He slowed his pace in order to keep an eye on the limping fox.

                The den was a small cave that had been formed from an overhanging rock, built into the side of an incline with a large tree rooted over top of the entrance. It wasn’t that large, but the wolf fit comfortably with space to spare, and he hadn’t needed to share until now.

                The wolf entered, called by the scent of home. Meanwhile, the fox had paused outside, a few lengths from the opening. Its nostrils were twitching, and a distasteful look crossed its triangular face. The sweet little fox should have known better.

                How would anyone know who this den belonged to if he didn’t mark his presence?

                The wolf was accustomed to the rank smell of piss that always lingered near the front of his den; it was mostly overshadowed by the many other smells of the forest.

                The fox trampled through the dead leaves and gradually entered, assuredly overwhelmed by the odor of wolf inside the den. The smaller canid immediately dropped into the farthest corner and curled in on itself.

                The reynard didn’t sleep. Enough daylight remained so that the infiltrating sunlight caught the shine of the fox’s golden eyes, watching him.

                He wanted to be close to his fragrant little fox, but the tiny male wouldn’t allow it. It growled when the wolf drew near and didn’t stop until a healthy gap of space separated them. The wolf _whuffed_ to himself.

                Tomorrow, he would bring back rabbits and squirrels for his fragile den mate. Something small and easy to eviscerate so that the fox’s little teeth and jaws wouldn’t be taxed. In the meantime, the reynard could rest and tend to its fresh wounds.

                He would provide for the little fox in his den as if it were the she-wolf carrying his litter.

* * *

                Winter arrived many sunrises later. Both his and the fox’s coats had thickened in preparation for the weather. They hunted together now, whereas the fox used to sit in the den and collect broken-necked rodents from the mouth of the cave.

                A heavy snow had fallen, and it climbed up to the reynard’s shoulders when they left the den. The little fox would hop through the thick, white blanket, sending up bursts of snowflakes and squealing adorably as it tried to keep up with the wolf’s longer strides.

                He and his little companion would return to their cave before sunset, shaking the wetness and crystals from their fur.

                Initially, the wolf struggled with the enticing scent of the little fox, especially when it wafted around the warm confines of the den. It was difficult and unnatural for the wolf to resist his instincts, to shy away from the pretty fox who smelled ready to be bred.

                Intuition told the wolf that he could knot the reynard but never fill it with their cubs; there was no special, warm, hollow space inside of the little fox for them to grow. The thought saddened the wolf, who had never met a companion of the fox’s likeness. It was either this sadness, some primal impulse, or a flood of pheromones that overrode the wolf’s sense, and a few times, the sire had tried to mount the little fox.

                Every time, he was met with harsh snarls and kicks to the snout, the little fox spinning around swiftly to keep its back away from the wolf. After each incident, the reynard would sleep in the corner of the cave, its back facing the wall with obvious mistrust. Punishment for the wolf’s violation of their rules of coexistence. The wolf eventually learned when the fox’s claws gave him a bloody muzzle.                

                Before spring arrived, he discovered an alternative that suited them both.  

                On better days, the little fox slept only a few paces away, and in deep slumber, would roll over onto its back, flashing its soft, white belly. Its bushy tail would flick alluringly, drawing the wolf’s stare and compelling him to move closer.

                Tiny whimpers escaped its maw, and the fox twitched, caught in some dream, mating or chasing down favorite prey. The wolf pressed in close to the fine fur, only briefly glimpsed and peeked at during their time together. Only in sleep would the little fox leave itself so vulnerable.

                The wolf nosed into the reynard’s underbelly, making one of the fox’s hind feet jerk in its sleep. Emboldened, the larger male sniffed farther down the thick brush of fur, enjoying the rich, unadulterated scent of his den mate.

                The little fox stirred, its breaths quickening under the wolf’s muzzle, but the creature didn’t growl and slash. It remained pliant, amenable to the wolf’s current affections.

                The wolf nuzzled into the soft fluff of the fox’s hindquarters, into the sweet, little lump of its hidden sex, and the fox yipped softly. A pretty noise indeed. One the wolf wanted to further provoke. He licked over the same spot with his sandpaper tongue, and the tiny male whined and thrashed its head.  

                From then onwards, the little fox curled in close to the inside of the wolf’s flank while they slept, a neat ball of uninterrupted fur, its tail shading its eyes. On cold nights, at the peak of winter, his little companion nestled between his forelegs and underneath his chin to better share their body heat.

                The little fox started to bare its belly to the wolf for the sake of hearing its den mate’s pleased rumble, and some mornings, would wake the wolf with gentle licks to his muzzle. Apologies for all the abuse the reynard had bestowed on it in the past.  

                In the spring, when convalescence and harsh weather were no longer motivators to stay, the wolf feared the little fox would disappear in the night. Gone forever. The sounds of that year’s young chirping and crying and squealing served as harsh reminders of what would never be.

                The wolf was renewing the markings around his den, reestablishing his domain after months of snow had weakened his claim. He expected a sneer of disgust from his little companion, but the fox was retracing the wolf’s steps, pissing over top of his markers. Mingling their scents, proclaiming that what had been _his_ was now _theirs._ The wolf no longer worried.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With almost absolute certainty, like 98% certainty, this is the last thing I'll write for this little fic. Thank you to [PeterPanComplex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PeterPanComplex/pseuds/PeterPanComplex) for giving me the idea of how to wrap-up this story.

                In much the same way as he found his mate a few autumns prior, they stumbled onto the pup. Helpless. Whining and crying from a ditch, where the heavy snows and runoff had eroded the soil.

                His hackles rose with vigilance, scouting the terrain for an incoming mother. He scented nothing save for the fresh spring breeze and the blooming life of the forest. The little fox had been far less concerned, for when the wolf turned back to his companion, it had already strayed to inspect the cub.

                The closer he moved, the more certain he became that the pup was neither wolf nor fox. Coyote. From the smooth underside of the belly, a bitch.

                Deserted or orphaned. The tiny thing was unremarkable. A dull, sandy coat, with the fur tipped in dark gray, having yet to grow into her ears. Not nearly as beautiful as his little mate.

                And yet, the reynard watched the fussing cub with absorption, adoration. A dangerous sheen overtook its eyes, lovestruck; the wolf knew it well. Rarely could he deny any request from his companion.

                He edged forward and sniffed skeptically at the she-pup. The wriggling thing redoubled the force of its wailing when his muzzle pressed into her fur.

                The small fox nudged him out of the way and narrowed its eyes in disapproval. Instantly, it nuzzled against the cub's ears and made consoling snuffling sounds until she quieted.

                The wolf was not so enamored of the little bitch—feeling rather indignant—and it was apparent enough to his mate. The pretty reynard huffed in his direction before lifting the pup by the scruff and towing her several feet in the direction of their den.

                The sight of his companion carrying a freshly-weaned coyote cub, already a quarter of the fox’s own size, should have been laughable. The wolf did not anticipate his own reaction.

                Something stirred within him, propelled him forward to his struggling mate that had only gained a few yards with the heavy pup.

                The springtime made the wolf vulnerable to begin with, soft and glazed-over with dreams of making his own pups with his feisty mate. Seeing that tiny cub clutched in the fox's jaws changed everything.

                What had been a minor nuisance was now a blessing. Surely others in the forest would look upon them and think _unnatural_ or _abomination_. The wolf thought of nothing but family and fulfilling his true nature.

                The next time his sweet fox set the pup down to rest, the wolf hoisted the wriggling cub easily between his teeth. She made a few wispy, strained cries before relaxing and swinging gently from his hold.

                The little fox rubbed along his side as they walked, tawny eyes slanting and twinkling with the promise of rewards later to come.

* * *

 

                Their days followed a beautiful sort of routine. At dawn, they accompanied the pup on foraging trips, teaching her which prey to stalk and how to best kill them efficiently. Her vulpine father showed her speed and cunning, her lupine father strength in bringing down larger animals. She would never reach his size, even fully grown, but the cub would eventually surpass the little fox.

                During midday, they rested in the den or the open woods, the cub hopping and walking across their bodies, eager to play. The fox indulged her more often, light-limbed and gentle. Afterwards, when the pup had collapsed in exhaustion, the wolf would groom her with his broad tongue until she was pristine and proud. The small coyote would strut between them on the way home, her legs strong and sturdy enough to carry herself now.

                After their second meal at dusk, they retired for the night. The raptors were notorious for hunting in the moonlight, and while he and his mate had reared a robust pup, she was still fragile and new to the world.

                The wolf enjoyed the nighttime most. His mate tucked against his side with their cub curled underneath the warmth of the reynard’s luxuriant tail. Or the times when he and his little fox would play-mate, mounting and rubbing against one another, spilling seed onto the floor of their den so that it smelled properly of them.

                It used to sadden the wolf, licking the evidence of their exertions out of the fox’s fiery fur. Wasted opportunity and impossibilities. By the way his sweet mate would demand to be huddled afterwards, he imagined it was a mutual feeling.

                Now, they coupled freely, no burdensome thoughts making their unions bittersweet. They did not make their cub, but she surely would have died without them. And, in the wolf’s opinion, saving a life was not so much worse than creating a new one.


End file.
